Name of the Wind REVIEW
There are many things to enjoy about this novel . . . the ending is not one of them (two sequels are promised apparently). But not all things worth the time you spend on them end well. Relationships and the first installment of a trilogy for example.
The novel came well recommended by both a good friend and my son, but there are two aspects of the novel that I should like to focus my attention on. The first is what this novel has to say about good story telling. The second has to do with how one’s first loves in life can travel with them throughout all their subsequent stories. “The first cut is the deepest,” the singer Rod Stewart tells us. But there can be other deep cuts as well.
The Name of the Wind is a story about Kvothe, a young boy who has the wits to benefit from each and every one of the different educational experiences of his young life. He is the son of a band of troubadours who travels from town-to-town entertaining with music and plays, and from his childhood, he learns much about human psychology, about storytelling, about theater, about affairs of the heart. As a young teenager, he is given the opportunity to be mentored by a gifted “Merlin figure” named “Abenthy” and from him, he learns a great deal about science and math and logic and mystical traditions that amount to learning how to harness natural forces to psychic abilities.
Soon after Abenthy leaves the troupe, Kwothe’s parents are killed and Kwothe is forced to scavenge in the woods and the slums of nearby cities for a number of years, learning what it takes to survive on his own on the streets. In his mid-teens, he gets it into his head that he wants to attend university and so, selling all that he has (not much), he heads off to see if he can talk the university administration into letting him attend on a full scholarship. Connecting himself with a variety of instructors, Kwothe pursues knowledge in the most abstract and practical knowledge the university has to offer. He pursues both mechanical engineering and philosophy as well as biology and anthropology and chemistry and music and whatever else he can make time for. Kvothe is what one might call an “autodidact” – he is a voracious learner, just as capable of learning to design mechanical contraptions as learning to make effective arguments, slaying dragons, or performing concerts with his lute.
“I went to learn magic of the sort they talk about in stories,” Kwothe says of his decision to pursue formal education at the university,
“Magic like Taborlin the Great. I wanted to learn the name of the wind. I wanted fire and lightning. I wanted answers to ten thousand questions and access to their archives.”
One of the things I like about this novel is the way that the character of Kwothe models what it means to be a learner. Most of the novel amounts to Kwothe telling the story of his learning-life to a “chronicler” – a story that like any good story - involves a young boy dealing with tragedy who falls in love, loses love, and surmounts one challenge after another until it is finally time to tell the story.
Here is some of the advice the novel has to contribute about storytelling.
“First, ask yourself if you can tell the whole thing in one breath. If so, what does it sound like?” Kwothe asks Chronicler about the way he thinks about his life story being told - and then replies to his own question: “I trouped, traveled, loved, lost, trusted and was betrayed.” “Write that down and burn it for all the good it will do you," he adds. But Chronicler intends to get the story in full with all its details and so Kwothe asks him how he generally goes about writing someone else’s story. “Chronicler shrugged,”
“Most simply tell me what they remember. Later, I record events in the proper order, remove the unnecessary pieces, clarify, simplify, that sort of thing.”
Kvothe reminds Chronicler that he is, himself, no stranger to the arts of storytelling:
“Kvothe leaned forward in his chair. ‘Before we begin, you must remember that I am of the Edema Ruh. We were telling stories before Caluptena burned. Before there were books to write in. Before there was music to play. When the first fire kindled, we Ruh were there spinning stories in the circle of its flickering light.’”
Storytelling, he reminds Chronicler, is the most ancient of all arts.
“The innkeeper nodded to the scribe. ‘I know your reputation as a great collector of stories and recorder of events.’ Kvothe’s eyes became hard as flint, sharp as broken glass. ‘That said, do not presume to change a word of what I say. If I seem to wander, if I seem to stray, remember that true stories seldom take the straightest way.’”
For this reason, a few sentences after Kwothe has started to tell his tale, he has to digress. At first, he thought that the story could begin at the university but then he realizes that his story began long before that, back in the misty but painful traumas of his childhood.
At one point in time, Kwothe meets a gifted storyteller by the name of Skarpi who tells him “that all stories are true even if only some really happened . . . more or less.”
Skarpi tells Kwothe, “You have to be a bit of a liar to tell a story the right way,” adding for good measure that “too much truth confuses the facts” and “too much honesty makes you sound insincere.” “That's why stories appeal to us,” we are later told by the author, “They give us the clarity and simplicity our real lives lack.”
When Kwothe’s storytelling is over for the day at the end of the novel, the author uses one of the other characters to remind us that “true stories have unpleasant parts.” And Kwothe’s has “more than most.” He suggests that most stories based on the lives of real people are “messy, and tangled.”
. . . and they do not always end well.
This is where we have to speak of “the woman”
“What does our story need? What vital element is it lacking?” Kwothe asks after spending several chapters on his childhood.
“Women, Reshi [Kwothe’s nickname],” Bast said immediately. “There’s a real paucity of women.”
Kvothe smiles. “Not women, Bast,” he says, “A woman. The woman.” “. . . Let me say one thing before I start,” he adds.
“I’ve told stories in the past, painted pictures with words, told hard lies and harder truths. Once, I sang colors to a blind man. Seven hours I played, but at the end he said he saw them, green and red and gold. That, I think, was easier than this. Trying to make you understand her with nothing more than words. You have never seen her, never heard her voice. You cannot know. But still, I will try.”
Kwothe’s mysterious first love is a teenage girl he met while in a caravan on his way to the University. Her name was Denna (real name Diana) and it would be many months later before he met her again. But he never forgot that first encounter on that fateful caravan trip. “If you can find someone like that,” he will later say of her, “someone who you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you're lucky. Even if it only lasts for a minute or a day.”
Kwothe is a fluid and articulate storyteller but when he is asked to describe Denna and what Denna meant to him, words always fail him. But here is what he says when he tries:
“As with all truly wild things, care is necessary in approaching them. Stealth is useless. Wild things recognize stealth for what it is, a lie and a trap. While wild things might play games of stealth, and in doing so may even occasionally fall prey to stealth, they are never truly caught by it.”
“So, with slow care rather than stealth we must approach the subject of a certain woman. . . . I fear approaching her too quickly even in a story.”
“No matter where she stood, she was in the center of the room. Do not misunderstand, she was not loud or vain. We stare at the fire because it flickers, because it glows. The light is what catches our eyes but what makes a man lean close to the fire has nothing to do with its bright shape. What draws you to a fire is a warmth you feel when you come near. The same is true of Denna.”
“ In what manner was she beautiful? I realize that I cannot say enough. So, since I cannot say enough, at least I will avoid saying too much.”
“Say this, that she was dark haired. There. It was long and straight. She was dark of eye and fair complected. There. Her face was oval, her jaw strong and delicate. Say that she was poised and graceful. There.”
“Kvothe took a breath before continuing. ‘Finally, say that she was beautiful. That is all that can be well said. That she was beautiful, through to her bones, despite any flaw or fault. She was beautiful, to Kvothe at least. At least? To Kvothe she was most beautiful.’ For a moment Kvothe tensed as if he would leap up and tear this sheet away from Chronicler as well.”
“Then he relaxed, like a sail when the wind leaves it. ‘But to be honest, it must be said that she was beautiful to others as well…’”
The Following Comes from Chapter 33 (“A Sea of Stars”) and gives us Kwothe’s recollection of Denna when he first met her as a 15-year-old.
“She arched an eyebrow, looking ten years older. ‘So certain.’ She smiled and was suddenly young again. ‘How does it feel to know where you are going?’
“I couldn't think of a reply, but was saved from the need for one by Reta calling us for supper. Denna and I walked toward the campfire, together.”
“The beginning of the next day was spent in a brief, awkward courtship. Eager, but not wanting to seem eager, I made a slow dance around Denna before finally finding some excuse to spend time with her.”
“Denna, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease. We spent the rest of the day as if we were old friends. We joked and told stories. I pointed out the different types of clouds and what they told of the weather to come. She showed me the shapes they held: a rose, a harp, a waterfall.”
“So passed the day. Later, when lots were being drawn to see who had which turn at watch, Denna and I drew the first two shifts. Without discussing it, we shared the four hours of watch together. Talking softly so as to not wake the others, we sat close by the fire and spent the time watching very little but each other.”
“The third day was much the same. We passed the time pleasantly, not in long conversation, but more often watching the scenery, saying whatever happened to come to our minds. That night we stopped at a wayside inn where Reta bought fodder for the horses and a few other supplies.”
“Reta retired early with her husband, telling each of us that she'd arranged for our dinners and beds with the innkeeper. The former was quite good, bacon and potato soup with fresh bread and butter. The latter was in the stables, but it was still a long sight better than what I was used to in Tarbean.”
“The common room smelled of smoke and sweat and spilled beer. I was glad when Denna asked if I wanted to take a walk. Outside was the warm quiet of a windless spring night. We talked as we wended our slow way through the wild bit of forest behind the inn. After a while we came to a wide clearing circling a pond.”
“On the edge of the water were a pair of waystones, their surfaces silver against the black of the sky, the black of the water. One stood upright, a finger pointing to the sky. The other lay flat, extending into the water like a short stone pier.”
“No breath of wind disturbed the surface of the water. So as we climbed out onto the fallen stone the stars reflected themselves in double fashion; as above, so below. It was as if we were sitting amid a sea of stars.”
“We spoke for hours, late into the night. Neither of us mentioned our pasts. I sensed that there were things she would rather not talk about, and by the way she avoided questioning me, I think she guessed the same. We spoke of ourselves instead, of fond imaginings and impossible things. I pointed to the skies and told her the names of stars and constellations. She told me stories about them I had never heard before.”
“My eyes were always returning to Denna. She sat beside me, arms hugging her knees. Her skin was more luminous than the moon, her eyes wider than the sky, deeper than the water, darker than the night.”
“It slowly began to dawn on me that I had been staring at her wordlessly for an impossible amount of time. Lost in my thoughts, lost in the sight of her. But her face didn't look offended or amused. It almost looked as if she were studying the lines of my face, almost as if she were waiting.”
“I wanted to take her hand. I wanted to brush her cheek with my fingertips. I wanted to tell her that she was the first beautiful thing I had seen in three years. That the sight of her yawning to the back of her hand was enough to drive the breath from me. How I sometimes lost the sense of her words in the sweet fluting of her voice. I wanted to say that if she were with me then somehow nothing could ever be wrong for me again.”
“In that breathless second, I almost asked her. I felt the question boiling up from my chest. I remember drawing a breath then hesitating-what could I say? Come away with me? Stay with me? Come to the University? No. Sudden certainty tightened in my chest like a cold fist. What could I ask her? What could I offer? Nothing. Anything I said would sound foolish, a child's fantasy. I closed my mouth and looked across the water. Inches away, Denna did the same. I could feel the heat of her. She smelled like road dust, and honey, and the smell the air holds seconds before a heavy summer rain.”
“Neither of us spoke. I closed my eyes. The closeness of her was the sweetest, sharpest thing my life had ever known.”
https://www.lingq.com/en/learn-english-online/courses/214195/33-630641/
Developmental psychologists tell us that there is something uniquely sharp about the memories that we make as teenagers. The adolescent brain experiences the world with more clarity (even the inaccurate things are clearer) and feels more intently about what it perceives (even if those feelings are transient). Patrick Rothfuss has captured this psychic experience of first love quite masterfully here. Even though it will be some time before Kwothe sees Denna again, it is as though the feelings of this starry night are imprinted upon his mind like a baby duckling is imprinted by its mother.
Many years later, Kwothe meets Denna again and again, he is struck by just how impossible she is to describe. His storytelling skills fail him. “I was too stunned to speak,” he tells Chronicler. “I could not have said a sensible word to save my life.”
“She smiled at me then. It was warm and sweet and shy, like a flower unfurling. It was friendly and honest and slightly embarrassed. When she smiled at me, I felt…”
“I honestly cannot think of how I could describe it. Lying would be easier. I could steal from a hundred stories and tell you a lie so familiar you would swallow it whole. I could say my knees went to rubber. That my breath came hard in my chest. But that would not be the truth. My heart did not pound or stop or stutter. That is the sort of thing they say happens in stories. Foolishness. Hyperbole. Tripe. But still…”
“Go out in the early days of winter, after the first cold snap of the season. Find a pool of water with a sheet of ice across the top, still fresh and new and clear as glass. Near the shore the ice will hold you. Slide out farther. Farther. Eventually you'll find the place where the surface just barely bears your weight. There you will feel what I felt. The ice splinters under your feet. Look down and you can see the white cracks darting through the ice like mad, elaborate spiderwebs. It is perfectly silent, but you can feel the sudden sharp vibrations through the bottoms of your feet.”
“That is what happened when Denna smiled at me. I don't mean to imply I felt as if I stood on brittle ice about to give way beneath me. No. I felt like the ice itself, suddenly shattered, with cracks spiraling out from where she had touched my chest. The only reason I held together was because my thousand pieces were all leaning together. If I moved, I feared I would fall apart.”
“Perhaps it is enough to say that I was caught by a smile. And though that sounds as if it came from a storybook, it is very near the truth.”
“Words have never been difficult for me. Quite the opposite in fact-often I find it all too easy to speak my mind, and things go badly because of it. However, here in front of Denna, I was too stunned to speak. I could not have said a sensible word to save my life.”
“Without thinking, all the courtly manners my mother had drilled into me came to the fore. I reached out smoothly and clasped Denna's outstretched hand in my own, as if she'd offered it to me. Then I took a half step backward and made a genteel three-quarter bow. At the same time my free hand caught hold of the edge of my cloak and tucked it behind my back. It was a flattering bow, courtly without being ridiculously formal, and safe for a public setting such as this.”
“What next? A kiss on the hand was traditional, but what sort of kiss was appropriate? In Atur you merely nod over the hand. Cealdish ladies like the moneylender's daughter I had chatted with earlier expected you to brush the knuckles lightly and make a kissing sound. In Modeg you actually press your lips to the back of your own thumb.”
“But we were in Commonwealth, and Denna showed no foreign accent. A straightforward kiss then. I pressed my lips gently to the back of her hand for the space of time it takes to draw a quick breath. Her skin was warm and smelled vaguely of heather.”
“‘I am at your service, my lady,’ I said, standing and releasing her hand. For the first time in my life I understood the true purpose of this sort of formal greeting. It gives you a script to follow when you have absolutely no idea what to say.”
“‘My lady?’ Denna echoed, sounding a little surprised. ‘Very well, if you insist.’ She took hold of her dress with one hand and bobbed a curtsey, somehow managing to make it look graceful and mocking and playful all at once. ‘Your lady.’ Hearing her voice, I knew my suspicions were true. She was my Aloine.”
https://www.lingq.com/en/learn-english-online/courses/214195/58-630719/
Many things will happen in Kwothe’s life between this moment of reunion and when they will again get a chance to talk. As noted earlier, real stories do not follow a straight line. At a crucial moment in the story of Kwothe and Denna, they had planned to meet and talk. But a fire broke out in the shop where Kwothe was working that day, and he dutifully saved a classmate’s life and missed the meeting. For several days later, he went back to see if he could find her to apologize and on his last trip to the place where they were to meet, the girl that he had saved came up to him to thank him and express her gratitude and Denna saw from a distance and misinterpreted and . . . that was that.
Until years later when they met again.
“She leaned forward to touch my hand in a consoling way. She smelled of strawberry, and her lips were a dangerous red even in the moonlight. ‘How well I knew you, even then.’ We talked through the long hours of night. I spoke subtle circles around the way I felt, not wanting to be overbold. I thought she might be doing the same, but I could never be sure. It was like we were doing one of those elaborate Modegan court dances, where the partners stand scant inches apart, but—if they are skilled—never touch. Such was our conversation. But not only were we lacking touch to guide us, it was as if we were also strangely deaf. So we danced very carefully, unsure what music the other was listening to, unsure, perhaps, if the other was dancing at all.”
Without ruining the story for you, when Kwothe wraps up this phase of his story, he stands on the outside of Denna’s life watching as one man after another shipwrecks their hearts falling for Denna.
Deoch, one of Kwothe’s mentors gives him this advice.
“You see, women are like fires, like flame. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like camp fires all light and heat for a night and willing to be left afterward. Some women are like hearth fires, not much to look at, but underneath they are all warm red coals that burn a long, long while. But Dianne…, Dianne is like a waterfall of sparks pouring off a sharp iron edge that god is holding to the grindstone. You can’t help but look and help but want it. You might even put your hand to it for a second but you cant hold it. She will break your heart.”
“How young I was,” Kwothe tells Chronicler, “How foolish. How wise.”
OF all of Denna’s many suitors, Kwothe has this to say:
“They knew she was leaving, and they didn't know why. So they clutched at her like shipwrecked sailors, clinging to the rocks despite the fact that they are being battered to death against them. I almost felt sorry for them. ” . . . “I have known her longer . . . and after she has left you I will still be here making her laugh.”
“I will still be here long after she has forgotten your name. They were quiet tears for herself, because there was something inside her that was badly hurt. I couldn't tell what it was and didn't dare to ask. Instead, I simply said what I could to take the pain away and helped her shut her eyes against the world.”
“I am one of her few friends . . . I will not be one of the cow-eyed suitors . . .”
“Denna is not wicked or mean or spiteful,” Kwothe insists, but “She is cruel.”
Question for Comment: What part does a first love play in the adventurous story of your life?
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